


Not a Soul

by MidfelMystery



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidfelMystery/pseuds/MidfelMystery
Summary: The Underground lay vacant, abandoned for the surface. Yet, there's a creature down there, left to his own thoughts.So he thinks.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Not a Soul

The Underground was quiet. Vacant. Unless the plants were counted. The flowers, and all other plants, were left unchecked after all the monsters were set free. Not a soul was down here, except for him. Flowey…. Asriel. 

And even then, he probably still didn’t count. 

He lay buried in the patch of golden flowers, his second birthplace. If he stayed still long enough, maybe he could pretend to be one or them. Unfeeling. Unthinking. The second was always hardest to achieve, of course. He always thought, so often he was left alone to them. 

Nobody came to wander the underground once the barrier was destroyed; the world above was too plentiful and held too many possibilities. The underground was just a dream, a fairy tale, and a nightmare rolled together. There was no nostalgia for this place for the monsters that left it, even though most were born in the darkness. The towns were left empty, without any souls, and the plants were beginning to fill the void. Causing ruin, destroying everything with their desire to live. The only soul who would come down was Frisk, and even so, it wasn’t to wander. 

Frisk. Frisk. The human who he mistook for his best friend. That he hurt, he killed over, and over again. Young, small, but with a willpower he hasn’t seen since, well... Chara. But this child cared for everyone. They weren’t hurt in the same way Chara was. Behind Frisk’s eyes, however, was a  _ need _ to do whatever it took to make sure everyone was happy. It wore on them. Controlled their soul. How many of those kind actions were from their own soul purely, and how many were driven by this thirst to help everybody in the end?

What burden did they bear to get Asriel where he was now? How many times had they torn themself apart and perished before they achieved this particular sort of ending? (Toriel always told him changes were merely a new beginning, but in order to have a beginning, something  _ has _ to end.) What did they sacrifice? Why do they still care about him?

He shook the thoughts away. He didn’t want to feel. Nuzzling deeper into the golden flowers, he held his breath as long he could. Until, eventually, he was forced to inhale once more. It was sickly sweet, the pollen coating inside of him, making his throat burn. 

He weakly rubbed at his closed eyes. Still dry. He couldn’t cry (he didn’t want to. It hurt too much). 

Eventually he wormed his face out from the patch of flowers, the pollen coating him and making him far more golden than usual. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He wanted to be like them, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. This was the best he was going to get. 

He heard soft rustling over the drips from the ceiling. Lowering his face again, he peered between the stalks and petals. He glared at the intruder. He spent so much time alone as a flower, worried about his lack of feeling. Worried of hurting others (when did he start worrying about this again?) The hundreds of passing years rushing and blurring together turning to molasses right before his eyes.

A twig snapped. He focused his eyes back on the intruder. 

Frisk stood there, the remains of a stick in hand. Even now they were too soft to dare hurt anything living. Smart too. They knew better than to touch him, so they had to get his attention another way. The light from above hitting the top of their head, creating a small halo on it. 

Frisk held out their hand. They wanted to help him. They wanted to bring him back. They couldn’t truly. Not anymore. 

But he could follow, he begrudgingly accepted. 

He got up, knocking at the flowers and brushing them aside (he refused to crush them). He didn’t smile, a true smile was still foreign to him after all this time. 

He grasped at Frisk’s small hand gently. Frisk held on tight, of course. If he tried to leave, he’d hurt Frisk. He didn’t want to do that anymore. 

Frisk smiled gently. He could see the painful desire to help shining from their eyes, deep from their soul. They really couldn’t, but for now this would have to suffice. They tugged at him softly, leading the way. 

Leading Asriel out of the Underground once more. 


End file.
